


Do What You Mustelid

by baroque_mongoose



Category: Girl Genius
Genre: Gen, POV First Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-14
Updated: 2014-12-14
Packaged: 2018-03-01 11:14:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2770952
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/baroque_mongoose/pseuds/baroque_mongoose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Martellus von Blitzengaard shows up, someone's got to hide the weasel; and there are unforeseen consequences.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Do What You Mustelid

**Author's Note:**

> Tiny, silly drabble based on current events. I actually have no idea what will happen in the story, except that there is very likely to be a big fight.

“Aaaaah!”

Lady Heterodyne is not normally given to yelping like that, but in the circumstances, nobody could possibly have blamed her. It is bad enough finding oneself face to face with Martellus von Blitzengaard even when one was expecting him; but for him to turn up out of the blue like that, without even Violetta noticing his approach – well, that is enough to make the stoutest soul yelp a little.

“Agatha!” he exclaimed, grinning all over his great caddish face. I had a sudden urge to punch him very hard. He may dress like a gentleman and consider himself Storm King these days, but no gentleman uses duress to persuade a lady to marry him. However, I knew very well that I would not win a fight against von Blitzengaard if I used my fists; I would have to use my brain, which, be he spark or no, is for most practical purposes better than his. And, besides, there was the weasel to consider. I was well aware that it was absolutely imperative to protect the weasel, otherwise Lady Heterodyne would have to keep von Blitzengaard around in order to survive, a perfectly untenable situation. The weasel had been no trouble at all, whereas von Blitzengaard is, I think, trouble personified.

Where _was_ the weasel, anyway? Ah; there, with Zeetha. Good. Though how she was going to hide it for any length of time...

She slipped round behind von Blitzengaard towards me while he was distracted by Lady Heterodyne. “Wooster,” she hissed in my ear. “The weasel.”

“Yes?” I mouthed back.

“Hide it.”

“Where?”

“In your clothes, you idiot! You've got more of them on than any of us except Violetta, and she's a better fighter than you. We'll probably need her.”

It was a harsh, but entirely fair, analysis. “Von Blitzengaard doesn't know you,” Zeetha continued. “So you stand round the place guarding the weasel and looking like some scared drip who can't fight, and then when he thinks you're no threat you can suddenly turn on him if you want.”

From Zeetha, I considered that probably counted as a compliment. She hastily passed me the weasel. It looked at me and said “snee!” very softly. I took a deep breath and then shoved the creature down my waistcoat. It tickled, but I have coped with far worse things.

If he thinks I've got it, I thought, I'll pass it on to Violetta. There are enough of us here to be able to keep passing it round in order to keep it out of his way, even if we can't get the monks to help; not that any of them would mind helping, I'm sure, but they don't understand why the weasel is so crucially important. A pity, since there is plenty of room to hide a weasel in one of those habits.

My next plan had been to move somewhere inconspicuous and draw my gun; however, at this point everything started happening at once, and I drew it anyway, without waiting to be sure I was out of anyone's sight. I was well aware that this probably did not fit with the original idea of looking like a scared drip who couldn't fight, but that approach works only if you can be fairly sure it will not get you immediately shot.

And the next thing I knew, I was almost nose to nose with von Blitzengaard.

The weasel must have smelt him; I could feel its panic. Unfortunately, a weasel in a panic has certain... instinctive reactions.

It could not dart into its burrow. Therefore, instead, it dived down my trousers.

There are things which really should not happen to a spy. Facing an enemy who is larger and stronger than you are, and who could rather easily beat you to a jelly, is all in a day's work. Doing so with a terrified mustelid in your undergarments is another matter entirely. I can testify that it does nothing at all to help the thought processes.

“Who the hell are you?” he demanded.

I was not in any state to answer that question. “This is all your bloody fault, von Blitzengaard!” I exploded.

“How dare you talk to me like that, minion! I am the Storm King.”

At this point, I am afraid I lost my head. In my defence, some extremely urgent weasel adjustments were required, and obviously could not be made without giving the game away; the creature is not malicious in any way, but it does have claws, and it was using them to get a grip. I punched von Blitzengaard so hard on his _soi-disant_ royal jaw that he staggered backwards, straight into the splendidly dangerous combination of Violetta and Zeetha, who were soon keeping him so busy that he had no time to come back and put me in whatever he considered to be my place. A shallow grave, I expect, from what I know of him.

Lady Heterodyne whisked past me, in the middle of fighting someone else. “Hey,” she said. “Lovely punch, Mr Wooster.”

I scurried out of the way behind the nearest monk, discreetly extracted the weasel, replaced it safely in my waistcoat, got my back against a wall and started shooting, which was the way I had always intended to fight. Much as I had wanted to punch von Blitzengaard, I had never actually meant to do so. And yet, as I pulled my brain back into gear, I realised that no actual harm had come of it; indeed, it had probably been the best thing I could have done once I found myself facing him, since it would have been the last thing he expected from someone my size. I am a tall man, but I do not have anything like his bulk.

And it had been so, so satisfying...

There was a tiny “snurf” from within my waistcoat.

“Very well,” I said quietly. “I think you're probably forgiven.”


End file.
